Meet The Thompsons
by Velvet Nights and Satin Skies
Summary: A look at what my family would look like if we had the Fellowship living with us. Chaos will reign, and people will cry and weep with joy and laughter. ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

**The annoying buzz **of my broken radio/alarm clock woke me from a very nice, comforting dream that had something to do with fluffy bunnies and cappuccinos and swords. The last two, at least, are a large part of my life. Well, the swords part only recently.

The snooze button was pressed several times, and I rolled amid the valleys of sheets, tangling myself into the pillows and comforters. A high-pitched whine began emitting from my radio, and I groped out, slapped the radio, then sat up, rubbing my eyes. My vision slid in an out of focus, and then I concentrated on the red digital numbers on my broken alarm clock. There was a six, and a four, and a three, which meant…I uttered a word that I couldn't repeat in any respectable company and swung my short legs out of bed, my bare toes hitting the chilly wooden floors that I adored. Hurrying to the bathroom - which was even colder than my drafty floors, considering it was in the farthest room of the house and covered in tile - I snatched my toothbrush out of the holder. I had to get my morning routine done in five minutes, before I had to wake everybody up. As I swiped my toothbrush across my teeth, I counted the toothbrushes set neatly into the three chrome holders. Eleven, not counting mine. Good, Izzy - my youngest daughter, more on her later - hadn't taken them out to play soldiers with. Whenever she used kitchen utensils and toothbrushes for toys, they usually ended up somewhere disgusting, like the toilet or the dog's dishes. I ran my fingers through my auburn hair quickly, having neither the time nor the inclination to pull a brush through the collar-length curls, and hurried down the hall.

"Okay, okay, okay, up, up, up." I said, clapping my hands and rapping on doors. The first door I passed was my youngest son's room, Joshua. He was a sweet little boy, with the plump, cherubic looks that only a seven year old can rightfully attain. His door was always slightly ajar, and one reason is because I like to see what he's doing inside his room. He has an alarming tendency that he only recently developed to make miniature explosions in his room; and the other reason is because the bunk beds I had to install in his room keep the door from shutting properly. Josh has been sharing a room with Merry and Pippin for the past month, and so far the arrangement has worked out nicely. The two little Hobbits have shown a fancy for Joshua's plastic army men, and not only do I find them in strange places (see: the flour bin and the refrigerator) but I'm constantly vacuuming them up.

The second door is painted an alarming shade of pink with several scribbled on graffiti near and around the edges of the door. The main focal point of the neon pink door is a large sign that's says "Beware of Wargs", which is our pet name for our two German Shepards. This is Izzy's room, my middle child - she's a funny little girl, rapidly approaching eleven years of age (God, I feel old). Of all my children, I worry about her the most. And it's not because of her strange habits of playing with spoons and toothbrushes, but mostly because she gets teased a lot. Izzy's constant torment in school was one of the deciding factors in my home-schooling all three of my children. Izzy likes to dress unusually, and when I say _unusually_, it's a bit of an understatement. Let's put it like this: her favorite outfit it a polka-dot pink ballerina skirt and a pea-green jacket, with mismatching purple knee socks and green clip-on hair-highlights that streak her shaggy blonde hair. Right now she's sharing a room with Alex, her older sister, who will be turning twelve next week. In my massive family, she's the one who always vies for my attention. With bone-straight, black hair that plummets to the center of her back, she has her father's striking good looks and her mother's attitude. (No, unfortunately, it's not the other way around). She's also toying the idea of being a novelist when she grows up, like me; only hopefully she'll make more money at it.

The third and fourth doors are connected inside, and usually I don't have to knock on these doors in the morning. Legolas and Aragorn share the left wing, while Frodo and Sam share the right side. Aragorn, the leader - for the most part - usually awakens the young Hobbits long before I get there. I swear to God, it'll be two o'clock in the morning and that man's prowling around downstairs with a dagger in his fist. He still gives me the willies; neither the books nor the movies capture that completely serious, penetrating stare that never fails to make me feel about this high. And it doesn't help that he's very, very, _very_ handsome; not my type, but I still can't bring him in public. All of the waitresses and shopping clerks fawn over him constantly, and it's impossible to get anything done. Funnily enough, it's Aragorn who attracts more attention in the real world than Legolas; I had Doomsday in mind when I first brought Legolas to Wal-Mart with me, thinking of mobs of wildly squealing fan girls; but surprisingly enough, everything was relatively calm. So Legolas has become my official shopping buddy - but more on that later.

Boromir sleeps down in the basement, and he's usually up rummaging around in the pantry while I get up. Now, I know everyone thinks he's a total psycho, but the Ring's influence had a huge different in his personality. Actually, he's a great guy to sit down and have a beer with (he likes Corona and Sam Adams, two things I could have predicted.) And he's not bad to look at, either. I mean, I have to clap myself on the back occasionally for not jumping one of the many extremely handsome guys I have lying around my house all the time. And when you're a single mom, living with so many men becomes very awkward. And they are _constantly, constantly, constantly_, leaving the toilet seat up and 'adjusting' themselves in public. The toilet seat I could live with; the adjusting themselves? Not a chance. It takes every shred of my self restraint not to just stick a cactus in their hands and make them scratch themselves with that. But I'm getting off track. (Did I mention most of them have deplorable table manners? Erm, sorry, getting back to the story.)

The other strange thing that I didn't mention is that the One Ring of Power doesn't work in our world. I know, right? I had images of Boromir slitting all of our throats in the middle of the night and then becoming some sort of fascist dictator. But it didn't work, and Frodo became a markedly less-Emo Hobbit than he was in both the movies and the books. Actually, he's become quite Pippin-ish, running around with Joshua and the rest, and mostly making me into a sort of zombie janitor following them around with a mop and a broom. And Sam's a dear; I don't know how I would feed four _extremely _hungry Hobbits (Tolkien says they like to eat; that's an understatement. These people LIVE AND BREATHE FOOD.) along with an elf, two men, a dwarf (who eats almost as much as the Hobbits. This is quite an accomplishment, considering the Hobbits are much smaller than he.) and, not to forget, a wizard. Oh, I didn't mention Gandalf, did I? I ran out of proper bedrooms, so I had to make a bed for him on the couch. He's really nice about it, even though I specifically bought this house so I could have enough spare rooms for people. Oh well. He's very wise, and mysterious, and his tobacco is embedding itself in all of my drapes and my sofas. It's a good thing it smells like vanilla and cinnamon, otherwise, the pipe would be used for kindling.

The way I'm describing it makes me sound like a dictator, or something, but it's so hard to manage a household, raise three kids, _and_ take care of nine fictional characters all at once. I check my basement every day to make sure something else isn't coming through, like Gollum or Sauron. At any rate, I'm getting off track again. It was a beautiful morning, and I was getting everybody up. I thundered down the stairs and nearly ran slap-bang into Boromir, who had just gotten out of the shower. He smelled deliciously of Old Spice ( I adore the commercials with Isaiah Moustafa, so I just had to get it for our resident characters. Even now, sitting here in my office, I still giggle when I think of Boromir holding up an Old Spice container and saying "The man your man could smell like!" Agh, getting off track again!) He was wearing a pair of old jeans and his tunic, which he had refused to part with and had been washed and bleached many times to get all the sweat and blood stains out.

The Hobbits and my children bustled down the stairs, chattering like a family of hamsters with their tails stuck in ice. (do hamsters have tails?) They grouped around the kitchen table, where I put my hands on my hips and began giving orders like a drills sergeant. "Alex, get your fingers out of your mouth please, or I'll put pepper on your nails. Sam, can you please open the refrigerator and get out some eggs? I don't have time to make breakfast for you guys this morning, so you're on your own. Gimli, take a shower today, you smell - _no beard hairs in the strainer, buddy!_ - and same goes for you, Aragorn. Izzy, please take that headband off, it's garish."

"What's garish?" Izzy asked, unpinning the rainbow headband with three fist-sized plastic butterflies perched on it. She examined it with all the seriousness of a doctor looking for some strain of contagious, deadly germ.

"It means 'not something I want you to wear'. Joshua, honey, help Sam with the eggs, he can't carry three dozen at once. Do not, under any circumstances, blow up this house." (This part mostly aimed at Gandalf.) I kicked off my slippers and shrugged out of my bathrobe as I gave orders, and most of the male company in the room averted their eyes. I have no idea why they have so much chivalry (My body was once called 'petite', but after three kids I don't know what I'm called.) There really isn't much to see, not with a perfectly modest tank top and a pair of nylon yoga shorts. "Alex, I want that book report today at noon, don't you forget."

"But Mom!" Alex whined. "I have to help make breakfast!" She had a very valid point. Did I mention how much Hobbits eat? They eat a _lot_. And they eat constantly. It's like having four Golden Retriever Puppies bouncing around the house, devouring anything in sight. I swear, I think Pippin tried to eat a candlestick once because it smelled like plums. So making breakfast takes just about all morning, and making lunch takes all afternoon, and the Hobbits are always dipping in pieces of bread, taking cheese out of the refrigerator, and drinking more tea than I care to count.

"I don't care, you should have done it earlier. I have a meeting this morning, and if I'm late my boss will have my gizzards." I answered, throwing my fuzzy blue housecoat - which, admittedly, had seen better days - on the stairs to be brought up to my room later.

"What does 'gizzards' mean?" Izzy asked as she cracked eggs into a bowl while Sam was simultaneously whisking two bowls at once. I shouted behind me as I trampled the stairs, taking my housecoat up with me because our resident elf has a very nasty habit of sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.

"It means if I'm late, I'm dead meat!" I slammed the door and began stripping, throwing on clothes helter-skelter. I heard something break downstairs - probably a bowl, they were always going missing. I went out every week to buy new bowls and plates. You know how Tolkien said that Hobbits were nimble and quick? Well, not when it comes to dishes. At least when it comes to dishes they don't own. I'm not sure about their own 'sterling silver tea sets'.

I heard the faint noises of Gimli and Legolas bickering again, most likely over Gimli's hygiene. There was a shout, and the sink went on. Something probably spilled. Our two German Shepards, Lucifer and Gabriel (fondly titled 'Wargs'), bounded forward, eagerly ready to polish the floors with their slobbery tongues.

It was just another day in the Thompson household.

**A/N: Theoretically, this story could last forever. It will essentially be a series of unconnected one-shots, in which complete and utter chaos reigns. This is my family and my household, and I am Emma, the main character. If you don't like the characters, tough boogers. It's my family, and if you insult them I'll come after you. This story will not be updated on a strict basis, because its just a humerous story to help me find my muse.**

**But none of this matters, as long as you… (say it with me)**

**REVIEW! PLEASE!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: My muse is officially gone on ALL my other stories...Then I remembered this silly little fiction. Enjoy another chapter of the madness...**

After work in the Thompson household means 'Mommy time'. All of my kids know to stay out of my way when I come back from work, mostly because my boss drives me crazy, and therefore I have the temper of a wet cat. My boss came over for dinner one time and Lucifer promptly knocked him over to sit on his chest and lick his face. Those dogs will be the death of me, I swear, but that isn't the point. Do you know how many weird stares you get from neighbors, friends, and random people when you have nine extra _men_ living in your house? Especially if your husband is out of the picture, they automatically assume the worst. Anyway, today was no different; I came home from work to make dinner and have a glass of wine and was met with a crying Izzy, holding a headless Barbie doll and a spoon, and a screaming Josh who was waving his hands excitedly. Alex was shouting at Aragorn (not an irregular sight – they got on like oil and water), and Boromir was shouting at Alex for shouting at Aragorn. Legolas was rubbing his temples and sitting on the couch, legs crossed in an elaborate pretzel formation, eyes closed and most likely meditating his migraine away. Gandalf was waving his staff and most likely trying to negotiate a happy compromise and being shouted down by various people. Gimli was washing his beard in the sink and calling for everyone to be quiet. The dogs were prancing around, barking and jumping up to lick people's faces, assuming that all the noise was a parade in their honor. I had no idea where the Hobbits were – probably downstairs in the basement eating something. Used to the noise of shameless bickering, I dropped my bags, shrugged off my coat, got a wooden spoon and a pot from the cupboard, and stood on a chair. I began rapping the pot bottom loudly with the spoon and shouting for everyone, in no uncertain terms, to shut up. It took a few minutes, and then Boromir kicked the Wargs outside and shut the door. Their barking startled the birds and they promptly began chasing their own tails. "Line up, one at a time," I said, sitting down on my chair.

Izzy and Josh ran forward to claim the precious first spot in line, shoving and growling all the way. I sorted them out with a few choice phrases, and Alex added to the hullaballoo by resuming her argument with Aragorn in a fierce whisper. "Alex, enough, leave Aragorn alone. Josh and Izzy, stand three feet apart. I don't want you even breathing on each other. Gandalf, what happened?" When times like this happen, I usually turn to the oldest and wisest of the group.

"From what I observed," Gandalf began, "Lady Isabella and Lord Joshua were playing some sort of seeking game –"

"Hide and seek," Josh interrupted.

"Quiet," I snapped.

"Yes, that," Gandalf continued. "And Josh hid in Lady Isabella's room underneath her bed. Isabella was angry about this –"

"I _told_ him that my room was off limits!" Izzy shouted, her pink cheeks matching the clip-on highlights in her hair.

"Enough," I said irritably.

"-and she began beating Lord Joshua about the head with her toy." Gandalf said, as though no interruption had occurred. "Lord Joshua grabbed the toy, and it broke apart in his hands –"

"It was an accident!" Joshua shouted.

"Was not! You beheaded Mitzi on purpose!" Izzy said angrily."

"Both of you, quiet, or you won't sit down for a month!" I growled.

"-So Isabella chased him 'round the house and began throwing things at him, none of which landed upon Lord Joshua's person, thank the Valar. Lord Joshua still has the doll head, as far as I know." Gandalf finished, regardless of unseemly interruptions.

I closed my eyes briefly and turned to Alex. "And why are you screaming at the king of Gondor?"

"Because he told me to do the dishes." Alex said promptly. "And I said no, and he said that I ought to mind him or I'd catch it from you."

"Aragorn is right, you will catch it from me," I reminded her, "Mostly because the dishes is your job when I'm not here. Remember the order of seniority – me, Gandalf, Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, the Hobbits, you, Izzy, Josh, and the Wargs. Josh and Izzy, make up right now."

Izzy and Josh pouted at each other. "Sorry." Izzy spat. "Sorry for giving you what you deserved."

"Sorry," Josh growled, "Sorry for breaking your dumb doll."

I sighed. "Close enough. Both of you go to your rooms until dinner's ready. Alex, do the dishes. Aragorn, thank you for reminding her, but next time, don't let her shout at you. Gimli, please, you're getting hair on my dishes."

"The bathrooms were taken," the dwarf reminded me.

"All right, all right, fine. Everybody – just – gah!" I ended with a theatrical moue of frustration and sat down hard on my chair. Boromir and Aragorn fidgeted uncomfortably.

"I am sorry," Boromir began. I flapped a hand at him.

"We're having frozen pizza rolls. If you don't like it, tough." I got up and began taking boxes of frozen pizza rolls from the freezer. Since my new additions to the household, I had begun buying things in groups of ten. Merry and Pippin poked their heads around the doorjamb tentatively.

"Is the shoutin' over?" Merry asked. I spilled the hard white nuggets onto a baking sheet and slid it into the oven, and then cracked open the second box and pulled out my other baking pans.

"Yes, I'm sorry," I answered him. "You can tell Frodo and Sam to come upstairs now, I'm making dinner. Oh, and tell them to bring up a can of tomato sauce."

"Er, I believe we're out of tomato sauce," Pippin said sheepishly. "And this time we didn't eat it."

I arched an eyebrow.

"No, really," Merry insisted. "Joshua was usin' it for blood. They were reinactin' the first War of the Ring."

"Well, we're having pizza rolls and ham sandwiches," I announced to the general assembly. "No sauce, unfortunately."

"No bread," Sam said, emerging from the basement with a sleepy-looking Frodo in tow. "The Wargs – er, the dogs, ate it while the children were doing homework."

"All right, change of menu." I said. "Frozen pizza rolls, and ham sandwiches, but no bread."

There was a collective groan.

"There isn't any milk, either," Frodo called from the pantry, standing on tiptoe to see the top shelf of the fridge. "We should go to the store."

I had just come home from work, after working hard all day on my feet and fetching random items for bossy, overbearing people. I had gotten three paper cuts, two stapled fingers, and a headache from reading countless lines of legalese. My feet ached from wearing pumps and my hair was frizzy from running my hands through it constantly. What I wanted to do was take a long, soothing bath, and curl up in my fuzzy slippers with my laptop and read some good, smutty fan fictions. I did _not _want to fight my way through mobs of people and screaming children to bicker over tomatoes and loaves of bread. But hey, this was my lot in life, and I was going to stick with it. "Legolas, get a shirt on," I called to the living room. "You're coming with me. I need someone to push the cart." I kicked off my shoes and yanked off my stockings, stuffing them in the toes of my black pumps. "Sam, can you run and get me my sandals and a jacket?" I asked the blonde Hobbit, who nodded and darted off to my room, taking the stairs two at a time (which is difficult for a Hobbit, due to their shortness of leg).

Legolas emerged from the living room looking sleepy and tousled, pulling a shirt over his head. He glanced distastefully at the black Ringo Starr graphic tee shirt and twisted his mouth at me as if to say _Really? Ringo Starr?_ Ignoring him, I grabbed my keys from the dish on the counter and slipped them into my pocket. Sam came running back with my denim jacket and my sandals, which were put on, and I shouted a general good-bye to everyone. Legolas eyed my car, my precious black suburban, with unease. "I do not like this," he admitted, gingerly sliding inside and shutting the door with quiet precision. I hurtled inside and slammed the door, ramming my seatbelt into the holder. "I am always anxious whenever we get into this..._car_." He pronounced it carefully, like fragile china.

"We'll be fine," I told him, backing out of our long driveway and pulling out onto the road. "You can't always be anxious every time we go to the store. Besides, the girls love you."

"That is what I am anxious about," Legolas said. "Remember the young lady who gave us bread?"

"Okay, one, a person who paints their jeans onto their legs and wears earrings the size of basketballs are not _young ladies_," I told him. "Two, she gave us free bread only after you agreed to give her the yoghurt. Bartering is not commonly accepted in Wal-mart, remember?"

"Yes," Legolas said. "Relax, Emma," he told me. "We shall be fine."

Great. If only I believed him.


End file.
